


Somethin's

by providentialeyes



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: 5 Times, Age Difference, Consent Issues, Dysphoria, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Misogyny, Internalized Transphobia, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Other, Pining, Power Imbalance, Sexism, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Virginity, Wet Dream, non-binary john marston, well this took a wild turn, yes i renamed it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/providentialeyes/pseuds/providentialeyes
Summary: There are little declarations of love in every somethin', every caring moment and careful attention afforded to another person.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 78





	1. 1-3

**Author's Note:**

> lots of internalized transphobia and sexism in john, along the lines of him thinking he's supposed to be a model 'wife' cause it's been beatin into him that his worth is in the purpose of being a mother or w/e  
> mention of a man he'd briefly had a relationship with threatening to rape him but it's very vague  
> john tells arthur to stop in the middle of a sexual discussion and the older man does  
> i think that's it for warnings

The first time John and Arthur talk about sex is the night of John's nineteenth birthday.

Doing shots of whiskey in a saloon a couple towns away from camp.

"What's your preference?" Arthur asks with a gesture towards the working girls chatting against the back wall.

John glances behind himself to see what Arthur's talking about and then rapidly turns back to the older man.

"What?" John asks nervously.

Arthur frowns at him slightly.

"It's your birthday, I'll treat ya," The older man says teasingly.

John shakes his head slowly, looking at Arthur incredulously.

"What's wrong?" Arthur asks and pours John another shot. 

"I ain't…" John downs the shot and clears his throat roughly, "I haven't…"

Arthur studies the younger for a moment before his brows raise in surprise.

"Do you even…" Arthur frowns crookedly, glancing back at the women, "Like them?"

"Uh," John shifts before nodding slowly, "But they ain't gonna… They'd probably be disappointed."

Arthur hums quietly in understanding.

"You ain't done nothin'?" 

John shakes his head quickly.

"Thought you had somethin' with that girl who was with us last spring," Arthur mentions, "Or that fella from New York?"

John shakes his head slowly.

"But you ain't… Opposed to it, right?" 

John scoffs quietly, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

"No, Morgan, I ain't opposed to nothin'."

"Hm…" Arthur eyes him then the girls one last time, "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Alright," Arthur says and peers down at the mostly empty bottle between them, "We oughta go set up camp 'fore we can't walk straight."

John snorts but agrees.

\--

They pitch their tent deep in the woods, rocky levels of the earth forcing the river into a series of waterfalls that make pleasant background noise.

John burrows under his blanket immediately after shucking his coat and boots, the last chill of winter only just ending.

Arthur stretches haphazardly in the tent before turning onto his side to face John. 

"S'the reason you any done nothin' because of…?" Arthur asks quietly, making a gesture at John's body in whole.

John's nose wrinkles defensively... Then he thinks about it.

Then he nods. 

"I ain't got many people I trust," John admits.

Arthur makes a sound of acknowledgment then props himself up on one elbow. 

"You trust me?" 

"'Course."

"You wanna…?" Arthur trails off, looking over John's face. 

John blinks in surprise. 

"Do you?" John asks breathily.

Arthur shrugs lopsidedly.

"I think I'm the only one who really knows," Arthur says genuinely, "And if you want to, I'm willin’."

"What're you thinkin'?" 

"D'you get off?" Arthur asks bluntly.

John makes a choked sound but nods.

"What do you think 'bout?"

"... Different things,” John mutters, seeing Arthur roll his eyes. 

“What comes up most often? What gets you off the quickest?”

John stares at him for a minute then frowns, thinking. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Arthur teases, “Say you were to touch yourself now, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

“You, right now,” John says quietly. 

Arthur raises a brow and shifts slightly. 

“What about me?”

John flusters and looks towards the top of the tent. 

“John?” Arthur prompts, “Spit it out, I ain’t judgin’.”

“What you'd feel like… Between my legs," John says hesitantly. 

Arthur watches him for a second and John very carefully stays still. 

"Inside you?" Arthur asks, voice pitched lower. 

John hesitates, then shakes his head. 

"Your… Your mouth," John says more cautiously. 

"Oh?" Arthur asks, sounding genuinely surprised and John cringes slightly.

He crosses his arms tightly over his chest and closes his eyes even tighter. 

"You think 'bout _that_ often?" Arthur asks and John makes a small sound of protest, "What?"

"Stop," John whispers weakly. 

"What?" Arthur asks more urgently, concern lifting his voice. 

"Just…" John takes in a shaky breath and digs his fingers into his ribs, _"Stop."_

"Alright," Arthur says quickly, "Shit, I'm sorry."

John hears fabric shifting then Arthur's voice a little farther away. 

"I ain't tryin' to push myself on you, I swear," Arthur says emphatically. 

John swallows and shakes his head slowly. 

"John… Tell me what's wrong, please?" Arthur asks gently. 

"S'not right," John says shakily. 

"What?"

"Fellas don't… It's not," John squeezes himself and turns onto his side, keeping his eyes closed. 

But facing Arthur. 

"S'not what?" Arthur prompts lightly. 

"I know I've been with y'all for a long time," John whispers, "And you've let me… Dress like this… Act like… Not a woman."

John lets go of himself to pull the blanket up higher. 

"But that ain't… What I was taught, growin' up," John says carefully, "I ain't _supposed_ to want _that._ Christ, even talkin' 'bout it is…"

John shakes his head quickly and presses the wool over his mouth. 

He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his head and tries to relax his face a bit, not holding his eyes shut so tight. 

"Then what are you _supposed_ to want?" Arthur asks quietly. 

"... Nothin'," John mutters. 

"Nothin'?"

"Some things you need and some things you gotta do," John says slowly. 

And Arthur thinks John sounds like he's speaking someone else's words. 

"And to get the things you need, you do the things you gotta do," John says and rubs the blanket against his cheek. 

"And what do you gotta do?" Arthur asks cautiously. 

"'Be pretty, be agreeable, find a husband, give him children.'"

Arthur frowns down at John from where he sat up. 

"Bullshit," Arthur says. 

"The man from New York?" John asks quietly, "The one you mentioned earlier?" 

"... Yeah?"

"He… He knew," John murmurs, "Dunno how. But that's why he…" 

John swallows roughly and rubs at his cheek again. 

Desperate to find some semblance of comfort. 

"Did he… Try anythin’?"

"No," John mutters, "Said he was gonna, though."

Arthur feels his jaw ache with how hard he's clenching his teeth. 

John's eyes finally re-open and Arthur softens his expression immediately. 

John looks up at him, tired and timid. 

It makes Arthur's chest hurt. 

"I don't even know if I…" John whispers, "If I'd… Be good at that."

"At what?"

"Bein' a wife… Bein' a… Mother, I suppose." 

"Do you… Want that?" Arthur asks hesitantly. 

"I dunno," John murmurs and lowers his gaze to Arthur's hands where the older man is restlessly flexing his fingers. 

"You wanna go to sleep?"

John nods slowly. 

"Alright," Arthur murmurs and reaches behind himself to snuff the lantern. 

"Wait," John whispers, "Will you… Lay down?" 

"... Do you not want me to?" Arthur asks worriedly. 

"No. No, I want you… With me," John says weakly. 

"You sure?" 

John glances up at him, and then at the entrance to the tent, before closing his eyes and nodding. 

The tent darkens through his eyelids and John feels Arthur's warmth come closer. 

He scoots back to make room for the older man then almost immediately burrows against Arthur as the older man settles down. 

John feels Arthur layer his blanket over them both and makes a small, appreciative sound. 

"Alright if I touch you?" Arthur whispers. 

"Yeah," John nods quickly and fights his own blanket so Arthur can get under that layer with him as well. 

"You ain't upset with me?" Arthur asks cautiously as he settles a hand on John's waist. 

John frowns and opens his eyes to look at Arthur in the darkness. 

"You didn't do nothin'," John murmurs, "And you stopped."

"You told me to." 

"Thank you," John says quickly, forcing out the words under cloying embarrassment. 

Arthur leans in slowly and presses a light kiss to John's forehead, pulls back and wraps his arm tighter around John.

\--

The second time John and Arthur talk about sex is after two jobs fail in a row, both John's fault.

John's sitting cross-legged on the back of the wagon they use to store dry goods, worrying a small piece of paper in his hands.

"Hey," Arthur says and sees John's eyes snap up to him, the younger instantly drops the paper, shifting one leg to hide it. 

"Arthur?" John asks quietly, "Somethin' wrong?"

"What's that?" Arthur points at the younger's thigh. 

"What?" John asks slowly. 

Arthur rolls his eyes and steps forward until John's forced to lean back and Arthur can tumble the younger backward with a small nudge. 

He grabs the paper while John struggles to right himself. 

"Arthur, Christ," John mutters and sits up, reaching for the paper. 

Arthur easily steps back, out of reach. 

John takes in a deep breath through his nose, staring at Arthur with frustration and sadness twisting his expression before he drops his gaze. 

"This an address?" Arthur asks, squinting at the messy writing. 

John doesn't answer, scratching a nail over a crack in the leather of his boot. 

"... It is," Arthur murmurs, "I recognize it. It's in town."

Arthur flips the paper over and more of the messy script meets him, this time a name.

"You found a job or somethin'?"

"Yeah," John says, a little quickly. 

Arthur frowns at him and commits the name and address to memory before holding the paper out to John. 

"You gon' share what you know or…?"

John takes the paper and shoves it in his pocket before sliding off the wagon and starting to walk away. 

"I ain't even sure I'm doin' it, Arthur."

Arthur can't get rid of the sour taste in his mouth at John withholding information and tails the younger back into camp. 

John slips into his tent and Arthur follows right behind him. 

John whips around, about to fire off some protest when Arthur holds up a hand and points at the stool in the corner. 

"Sit," Arthur says firmly. 

John tenses sharply then stiffly moves over and sits down, clenching his fists over his knees.

"What's the job, John?"

"It's nothin, Arthur, I-"

_"John,"_ Arthur says lowly and crouches to be level with the younger.

It makes John feel like a child and he absolutely loathes it.

"It's a whorehouse, alright?" John huffs and reaches up to rubs roughly at his temple. 

"... What's the job?" Arthur repeats, a whisper with an entirely different tone. 

"It's… There are some men with… 'Unconventional interests'," John says quietly. 

"No."

"What?"

"You ain't doin' that, John, you ain't doin' anythin' like that," Arthur says harshly, reaching out and squeezing John's knee, "You understand me?"

John lifts his head to frown at Arthur, studying the older man. 

"You gon' stop me?" 

Arthur's face smooths in surprise and then crumples in concern. 

"... You know I can't," Arthur whispers, "But why?"

"Money," John says simply. 

"Other ways to make money."

"Mm, and I've done _real_ well in those other ways lately, haven't I?"

"A couple mistakes under your belt," Arthur says soothingly, "No one got hurt. Nothin' serious was lost."

"And what about the next time I screw up and someone _does_ get hurt?"

"Work now on gettin' better, fightin' bare-handed is your weakness. You get good at that and there will be fewer 'next time's."

"But, it's an option." 

"It is," Arthur sighs and digs his thumb in on the side of John's knee.

\--

The third time they dance around it.

John straddling him is just about the last thing Arthur expects as he's sitting on a stump on the edge of camp.

"John?" Arthur leans back, both hands in the air to either side, holding pen and journal.

John ducks his head and leans in pressing his lips to Arthur's neck as he pushes their hips together.

Arthur's chest hitches and he sets the journal and pen down to grab John's waist, pushing the younger back. 

"What are you doin'?"

"Fuck me," John murmurs, fighting to get closer, to bury his face in Arthur's neck. 

_“‘What?”_

“You heard me,” John huffs and unbuttons the top few buttons on Arthur’s shirt, shoving the collar out of the way to mouth along Arthur’s collarbone. 

“John?” Arthur whispers. 

"Art?"

Arthur blinks his eyes open and quickly, sleepily, focuses on John.

"... You was callin' me," John says after a silent moment just studying the older man.

"Shit," Arthur mutters, propping himself up on his forearms.

John's eyes move down from his, dragging them away like he's having to physically rip through fibers locking their gaze together. 

Arthur tenses mildly, knowing where the younger is looking. 

The bulge in his union suit, the cooling damp spot. 

John slowly meets his gaze again, conflicted. 

"Sorry," Arthur says roughly, fighting himself to not look away. 

"... S'fine," John says quietly after a moment, "... You don't need _somethin'_ from me, then?"

Arthur shakes his head, lifting one hand up to scratch at his jaw, giving in, finally, closing his eyes. 

"Alright," John mutters, "Supper's been ready." 

"Thanks," Arthur whispers, just as John's ducking out of his tent. 

John pauses, mid-step, then shakes his head and trots on. 

\-- 

"Too tight?" 

"No," Arthur says tiredly, flexing his arm slightly to test the bandage's rigidity. 

"... You gon' be alright?" John asks, worry leeching into his voice as he sits back on his heels, kneeling on Arthur's bed, "S'pretty deep." 

“Had worse,” Arthur mutters and lays back carefully.

John looks down at him for a moment then shakes his head, exasperated. 

He glances towards the entrance, then back down to Arthur. 

Not wanting to leave, not wanting Arthur to leave him and go and get hurt again. 

“Can I stay with you?” John whispers. 

Arthur doesn’t respond for a moment, then lifts his uninjured arm, inviting. 

John quickly but carefully lays down, not wanting to jostle the older man too badly. 

He fits himself against Arthur, closing his eyes and feeling a calm wash over him as he presses his face into the older man’s chest.

“Was you dreamin’ ‘bout me?” John asks slowly. 

“What?”

“The other night…” John hides his face under Arthur’s chin so the older man can’t see the pink of his cheeks. 

“I…” Arthur clears his throat weakly, struggling to find the right answer. 

“S’alright, y’know?” John whispers, lightly tapping Arthur’s chest with one fingertip, “If you were.”

Arthur presses his lips together tightly, searching for the right thing to say and by the time he can gather his thoughts he leans back to look down at John and the younger is fast asleep.


	2. 4 & 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapters fucking short SORRY

The fourth time they talk about sex is on _Arthur’s_ birthday. 

After Arthur’s arm heals they don’t share a bed again, both slightly shying around any topic even _leaning_ towards…

Well.

Birthdays aren’t huge deals with the gang. 

A bottle of ‘shine, first pickings of whatever is available for dinner. 

Maybe, _maybe_ some kinda baked good, if they’re near-to a town and someone’s mindful enough to grab one. 

Just like John’s birthday, they’re taking the long way home, making sure no one is following them after an easy and moderately rewarding coach stick-up. 

“Hey,” John says suddenly, after a good half-hour of amiable silence between them.

“Hey?” Arthur looks back over his shoulder at the younger, quirking a brow. 

“Anythin’ you wanna do tonight?”

Arthur frowns at him, looking thoroughly confused at the question before realizing what prompted it. 

“Oh,” Arthur rocks his head in indecision, “Hm.”

“Cake, hooch,” John hesitates, “A lady?”

Arthur snorts a small laugh at that and turns back around. 

“Where we supposed to get any of those out here?” Arthur asks wryly with a wide gesture at the forest surrounding them. 

“There’s a town, bit west of here,” John says quietly, feeling a bit shot down. 

“Nah,” Arthur shakes his head slowly, “Another year can pass, don’t need to make a big fuss.”

John doesn’t bring it up for the rest of their ride. 

\--

The sun sets, they make camp. 

One tent, two bedrolls, as usual. 

But John keeps thinking about Arthur’s response. 

Not a 'I ain’t interested’ but a ‘those things aren’t available’.

Except, one is. 

Kinda. 

John offered to venture out and try to bring back something to cook up, a hot meal at least for Arthur. 

He’s waved off.

“Rather just lay down, honestly,” Arthur says and he does sound tired. 

So they lay down. 

John waits. 

Waits.

Volleys the idea around in his mind. 

‘Arthur’s willing’ 

‘Arthur’s tired’

‘He deserves it’

‘I… Want to’

John looks over at the older man when he finally works up the courage to offer. 

Arthur’s asleep. 

John closes his eyes with a small, self-pitying sound, re-opens them to look at Arthur.

His chest aches, heart _aches_ , so damn fond of the older man he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

He sleeps.

\--

There isn’t a fifth time they talk about it. 

It more just… happens. 

“You ever get another bottle of ink?” John asks one night they’re sitting at a quiet bar, sipping slightly-more-expensive-than-normal whisky. 

“While back.”

“Runnin’ low again?” John asks, unable to keep the teasing tone out of his voice. 

Arthur huffs, obviously about to refute the accusation, then he pauses, brow furrowing with thought. 

“You are,” John stage-whispers, grinning like a fool. 

Maybe too many sips. 

“Alright, I am. Why you bringin’ it up?” Arthur mutters petulantly. 

“Thought of it,” John says with a shrug but his eyes are _sly_. 

Lids lowered, dark and deep and shifted to the side. 

Arthur swallows hard. 

John looks good.

Really good… Not visually. 

Or at least, that’s not what’s stilling Arthur’s heart. 

It’s the hard-seated, buried-in-his-bones _content_. 

Just… Here, with Arthur, drinking, with Arthur. 

Being, with Arthur. 

“Alright, ‘nough of that,” Arthur says hoarsely and nudges away John’s glass, “Don’t need you fallin’ out your saddle.”

John pouts at him dramatically, nose wrinkled, lips pursed and Arthur’s eyes sting, just a bit. 

His tongue pinched between his teeth to stop him from smiling. 

\--

John sobers up over the next couple hours, until Arthur’s sure he’s not gonna end up riding upside down. 

Or throwing up from a canter. 

John actually rides ahead for a good while before asking Arthur’s opinion on where they should make camp. 

Under a little cliff, smooth stone, worn away long ago by rushing waters. 

John sets up their tent while Arthur manages a small, cozy fire. 

Two logs dragged up, intended as seats, but Arthur just ends up reclining against his.

John comes back out, clutching something behind his back. 

Sly, again. 

“What’cha got?” Arthur asks, leaning back to look up at John. 

“Somethin’,” John replies quietly, coming to stand a few feet back from Arthur. 

“Somethin’, hm?”

“Somethin’ for you.”

“You gon’ give it to me?”

“... Maybe,” John whispers.

It’s… Playful, in a way they usually aren’t… _Lately_ , aren’t.

“Somethin’ I gotta do to get that _somethin_ ’ from you?” Arthur asks lowly. 

John doesn’t answer, studying the older man. 

Arthur drops his gaze to John’s boots, feigns confusion. 

“Hey, you got…” Arthur mutters, “John, your boot.”

“What?” John frowns and looks down at his boots. 

“No it’s… C’mere,” Arthur says and sits up, beckoning John to come closer. 

“Arthur, what?” John comes closer, standing just next to Arthur’s legs.

Arthur takes the chance, seats his hook, tugs John down. 

Incidentally into his lap, but he reaches behind John to grab the _something_ from John’s hands. 

“Oh, _Christ_ , Arthur,” John huffs and sits back on Arthur’s thighs after the small box is pried out of his hands, frowning harshly at the older man. 

Arthur squints at the box in the firelight, turning it before holding it up.

“Can I open it?”

“Oh _now_ you care,” John mutters bitterly, “Shit, yeah, go ‘head.”

Arthur pops open the paper box and dumps it into his other hand, surprised by the cold glass. 

“Ink?” Arthur looks up at John, “You just asked me.”

“I noticed it a while ago,” John says softly. 

“Oh…”

“It’s blue,” John says, sounding like he’s trying to sell a bag of shit, gesturing weakly at the bottle, “Dark, not a… A distractin’ kinda blue, just somethin’ different, thought-”

“Hey,” Arthur says gently, getting John to meet his eyes again. 

“... Hey,” John replies, barely above a whisper. 

A stillness falls upon them, and seemingly everything around them. 

Indecision, hesitance, a culmination of their moments, of all the almost _somethings_ over the last months. 

John breaks it. 

Moves, digs his fingertips into Arthur’s waist, leans in, pulls himself closer, looking down between them as he fits their hips together in the same way he’s imagined for what feels like _forever_. 

Arthur’s arms are hovering, to either side, box in one, bottle of ink in the other. 

He’s forced to remember the dream that brought his want for John into the forefront of his mind. 

The dream that fully changed the way he views John. 

But Arthur knows that was an extreme, a desire for confirmation that John _does_ want him. 

He sets down the bottle and then the box, lifts one hand, fits John’s ear into the crook between his thumb and forefinger. 

Cups the base of John’s skull. 

“You want this?” Arthur whispers, gentle, concerned. 

Like he’d understand, like he’d be okay with whatever John said next. 

John’s cradled by the words just as much as he is by Arthur’s hand, the concern, the unmeasurable _care_ lying in those three words. 

Not a confession, he doesn’t need that, doesn’t know if he could say those three words himself. 

This is specific, tailored to him, a comfort and a _something_ that shows how deeply Arthur understands him. 

He kisses Arthur. 

A bit harshly, over-eager at first, before he catches himself, starts to ease back. 

But Arthur follows him, fitting their mouths together and dropping the other hand down, clenching his fist in the creases of fabric at the crook of the younger’s hip and thigh. 

He’s slow but not gentle, firm but not brutal. 

None of John’s absent daydreaming or vague midnight fantasies could’ve prepared him for this. 

This feeling, this _knowledge,_ this _something_ that he’ll never be able to burn from his brain. 

He’ll know, for as long as he’s capable to _know_ and be _known_ in life, the way it feels to be kissed by Arthur Morgan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is this lovey dovey bullshit where'd my angst alignment go help

**Author's Note:**

> [morston discord](https://discord.gg/BFFx4Xy)   
>  [my twitter](https://www.twitter.com/providentialone)


End file.
